


Sometimes a Fantasy

by The_Fanfic_Mormon



Category: Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Denial of Feelings, Eventual Romance, F/F, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Self-Esteem Issues, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:40:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21638965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Fanfic_Mormon/pseuds/The_Fanfic_Mormon
Summary: Diana Barry meets Anne Shirley Cuthbert. The unexpected feelings that result draw Diana into a distressing conundrum, one that threatens to swallow her whole if she can't navigate her way through the emotional mess of her own making.
Relationships: Diana Barry & Anne Shirley, Diana Barry/Anne Shirley
Comments: 21
Kudos: 113





	Sometimes a Fantasy

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a thought experiment. Watching the first two seasons, I found myself hopelessly enraptured with Diana's character, and what felt like a load of gay subtext. From there, I spiraled into a frenzy, losing myself in her character's perspective. I spent a month planning, writing, and revising, and I have to credit a couple of my friends for proofreading (thanks Derek and Grace). This is also my first attempt at romance. Ever. I'm actually kind of proud of this one. I don't think the audience for this one is that big, but I feel like some part of myself has been satisfied in this. Enjoy.

When Anne Shirley Cuthbert comes to town, it’s the most exciting thing to happen in Avonlea for months. A new girl, and one from an _asylum_ at that! How scandalous! Diana is unsure of exactly why it’s a substantial matter, but anyone new to the island, she supposes, is a source of excitement. And conveniently enough, the new arrival just happens to be within moments of visiting.

Her mother has been frantic for the whole morning. For the life of her, Diana can’t understand why. The Cuthberts are hardly as obsessed with English decorum as her parents are. The addition of a daughter (at least, she assumes. Mother hasn’t really specified, just vague murmurings about an “orphan vagrant” and such) hardly changes much.

But Mother was never anything less than perfect to the rest of the world, so here she stands on the doorstep with Minnie May, careful to keep a neutral yet vaguely pleasant look on her face. Ladies must not be too emotional; eagerness at, say, a possible friend is frowned upon at best.

Marilla strides up and makes pleasantry, dragging behind her a downcast and stringy girl who refuses to meet anyone's eye. Her plain brown dress stands in contrast to Diana’s white and blue one, and for a small moment she feels awkward, as if she’s overdressed for what is supposed to be something casual. The girl’s face is bespeckled with freckles that seem to match her fiery hair, and she takes note of the azure eyes, of a pale and soft nature. Compared to her own porcelain skin, prominent dimples, and petite lips, Anne falls short of what she knows Mother’s standard of beauty is; she’s determined, however, not to let that get in the way.

“And this must be Anne,” Mother says, an unreadable expression on her face. Diana knows her opinion on those lower than them, but it appears that she’s keeping her snobbery in check. There’s a moment where no one says anything, a bolt of unease flicking through the air.

 _Something_ happens in her mind. A flare of enthusiasm, excitement over the potential of the moment, some feeling she can’t exactly put her finger on.

A smile breaks through the mask. “Good afternoon.” The note of zest that leaks into her voice seems to surprise the redhead for a brief moment, blue eyes flicking up for a second before returning to their downturned position. The tinge of disappointment that rises within causes her to elbow Minnie May into greeting the girl.

There are many more awkward seconds before the pair is finally invited in. Mother and Marilla slowly make their way to the kitchen. Minnie May disappears to God-knows-where, while Diana and Anne are left to their own devices.

“So…,” she says hesitantly, eyeing the dreary redhead, “would you like to go for a walk?” They’re really supposed to be having a spot of tea, or maybe going up to her room to pleasantly socialize, but Anne looks like she barely wants to say anything.

Diana doesn’t get any sign that she _actually_ wants to, but she follows her into the garden, at her side despite her silence. She brings up small remarks, making conversation in an uncomfortable sort of way that makes her stomach sink a little every she sees the girl’s morose expression.

Eventually Anne reveals something, if by accident. Meaningless small talk about cake takes an interesting turn when Anne remarks that the cake was scrumptious.

 _Scrumptious._ What a curious word! She can’t help but grin a little. “Scrumptious.” She chuckles, mulling over the fact that Anne seems to be more knowledgeable than she initially lets on.

“Have you always been shy, or does it come from being an orphan?” she asks, then immediately regrets it. How rude can she possibly be, to utter such a crude thing! Anne doesn’t seem to take offense, though, and Diana’s mortified blush goes thankfully unnoticed.

“I’m less shy than reticent.” Anne remarks, turning to face her as they trod forward, and some of her anxiety fades away at the sign of conversational engagement. It’s a small victory, she thinks, to coax this girl out of whatever shell she’s in.

“Goodness!” she exclaims, marveling again at the verbosity of her acquaintance, “There’s another 25-cent word.” Just hearing such marvelous words dig up some memories, of before Mother began her crusade to make her a lady, when she could actually _enjoy_ a book. Goodness, it’s been so long since she’s read!

Sure enough, with a growing smile on her face and passion seeping into her voice, Anne confirms that she likes to read. As if that was a surprise, she thinks!

“I like reading, too, but Mother prefers that I do needlepoint.” It almost feels shameful to admit to have being dulled by mundanity. Insecurities creep in, as she realizes exactly how outclassed she feels to the rapidly warming girl.

“Does needlepoint provide much scope for the imagination?” the redhead inquires, and Diana has to glance away because the question stings. When _was_ the last time she imagined something? Such a simple and carefree mental task, obfuscated by the stifling conditions around her. To be side by side with such a force of creativity makes her feel small, insignificant almost.

“I don’t think imagination is my strong suit.” Anne looks shocked, and she wants to simultaneously giggle at her expression and cry a little.

“Really?” she asks, eyebrows bunching in confusion. “I don’t know what I’d do without mine.” She pauses, and there’s a moment of dramatic silence that sort of makes her forget her quailing as she gets caught in whatever world Anne seems to be in. “Life would be an agony, an utter agony.” It’s a statement that is so firm that she can only focus on her riveting vocabulary, not the fact that she’s been living that so-called agony for months.

“Agony!” She remarks, mimicking the redhead’s theatrical tone. This provokes giggling from them both, and Diana is seized with happiness to hear such a vibrant expression of joy. She turns to look at Anne, and catches her looking right back at her. The girl’s pale skin flushes the color of her hair, and they look away as if they’ve each discovered the other doing something embarrassing. She supposes it is embarrassing, to the slightest degree, being this expressive around someone she’s just met. It’s _liberating_ , even though they are admittedly small concessions.

“I make up stories all the time,” Anne admits, as if what she’d seen had proven otherwise. “I could never do that.” She murmurs, less ashamed than before, but out of nowhere Anne springs off to the side of the path.

“I like to imagine…,” Anne begins and Diana watches with rapt attention as Anne makes herself a tragic princess, or the majestic Joan of Arc (who she doesn’t mention was burned alive by the English). It’s captivating, the speed at which ideas seem to ferment in her mind. By the time Anne’s become a mourning bride, she cannot help but laugh in a most unwomanly way. It’s sheer joy, this moment of warmth and wonder in the garden, and her entire body is filled with an energy she can’t put a name to.

“Can you tell me a story now?” she blurts out, enthusiasm taking over. Anne’s grin is as wide as hers when she responds, “I could tell you twelve!” For half a second, the only thing that comes to mind is that she would listen to every single one.

“Diana…do you think you could like me just a little?” the redhead entreats suddenly, hair almost glowing as the sunlight gives her a Byzantine halo. The question hits her like a lightning bolt, and she steps back a little. My word, she thinks, how could anyone _not_?!?

“I-I already do!” she stutters, tripping over her words at the sheer fondness that her sentiment carries.

She suddenly jolts a little, as she realizes she’s grabbed Anne’s hand and the other girl has clasped hers with the same energy.

“Shall we swear to be best friends forever and ever?” Anne asks and suddenly it hits her. _What_ is she doing? Getting this excited over someone she barely knows, being _this_ emotional and extraverted? Despite the warm feeling that seems to resonate through her, she pulls away.

“I…It’s dreadfully w-wicked to swear.” She falters, turning to walk away quickly. She can’t avoid the way Anne’s face falls, the way it seems to create a pit in her stomach.

She’s almost thankful when Anne follows alongside her, almost begging her to understand that she didn’t mean it in a sense regarding inappropriate words. As if she doesn’t know that. As if the flimsy reasoning is anything more than an excuse to escape a situation which, while most unorthodox, gives her much pleasure.

She just feels _tired_ , worn down from her emotions’ battle with all that has been instilled in her about exactly how to act.

“How do you do it? The oathe.” she finally concedes, and the smile that climbs onto her face makes Diana do the same.

Anne suddenly runs off, returning quite quickly with a pale fuzzy dandelion. “Well this ought to be done by moonlight or over running water…” she approaches her, and the sun behind the redhead makes the whole scene look like a stained glass window in a church. The blasphemy of her thoughts almost makes her giggle, but she stifles it as Anne continues.

“But we’ll imagine that it’s nighttime and that this path is a stream.” Diana _needs_ to do this. She forces her regressed imagination to work, insists that the dirt footway is a lazy brook flowing through the forest and that the sky is black, studded with celestial jewels. There is a moment where she almost feels it to be true, and in the rush that goes to her head, all she can focus on is Anne’s face.

Their hands wrap around the flower, and the contact feels exhilarating. The last time she touched someone in any sort of platonic yet affectionate manner, why she can’t even remember! Their other hands lock pinky fingers, and the delicate feel of the small digit makes her heart beat faster.

There’s an oath to be said, something about being faithful to each other forever. She repeats after Anne, surprised that thrill within her allows coherent sentences to be said. And then Marilla’s yelling reaches them, beckoning the girls back to the house. She’s in a daze, and hugging Anne goodbye hardly affects her in this state, as revolutionary as the gesture should be.

She fumbles through the rest of the day, stares distractedly at dinner (much to Mother’s chagrin), and stumbles into bed with a head full of thoughts. Anne, in one day, showed so much _more_ to her. Imagination and books, oaths and small intimacies… what new world awaits before her?

For the first time in quite a long time, she cannot help but to try and imagine the days to come.

* * *

She wakes up to hear that Anne has been sent back.

Immediately a whole host of feelings rise within her, each one jostling for control so intensely that the lump that rises in her throat prevents her from speaking. She’s angry, a fiery rush that makes her want to rush from the table and slam the door in the way out to the backyard to fume. She’s miserable, a weight that makes her want to sit down and give out. And most of all, it’s a surprise that

Mother stares at her from across the table, concern etching into her face. “Diana, are you well?” Father, looking up from the paper, quirks an eyebrow up at her. And then she realizes that her mouth is hanging open, muscles in her face twitching as her parents look on in worry.

She takes a breath, and pushes the feelings down with one smooth motion as her face returns to the mildly pleasant look expected of her. Minnie May giggles and sticks out her tongue, but she refuses to take the bait. “Fine. I’m fine.” Her parents don’t look convinced, but they resume the silent breakfast.

Her day looks bleak, until a knock on the door turns out to be no one other than the runaway herself.

She gets the explanation, a convoluted tale of an amulet and Matthew trudging across to the mainland to retrieve her at a train station. She listens devotedly, but she has to restrain herself from losing composure to tackle the redhead into a massive hug. She can see the same frantic energy reflected in the girl before her. It’s once they get outside that Anne begins to run, yelling after her to give chase.

It’s a fantastic way to get out all the energy that has been clashing inside her, and by the time they reach a small hill, their excited screams have died down into a mix of panting and giggles. She’s somewhat lucky her dress isn’t muddied.

“I’m so glad you’re back, Anne.” The freckled girl looks at her with a toothy grin, eyes sparkling. Her brain realizes that her hand has found its way to Anne’s shoulder, and the blush that rises to Diana’s face makes the other girl giggle. Bashfully, she breaks contact with her.

“Well, you’re the only one.” Diana winces when she hears it. The statement drops in front of them, and it’s so mind-boggling to her that her silence allows Anne to clarify. “Well, Matthew seems to be, but he must have talked her into it.”

Diana pauses in their walk, trying to comprehend what’s been said. How could _anyone_ who ever came across Anne dislike her? That’s something that _she_ has to imagine. This scenario is so foreign it almost seems like fiction. Why, Marilla was a mess when she was gone! It’s outlandish, and she says as much.

“That’s not possible.” There’s a determination in her voice that makes her wonder if Anne perceives herself _this_ lowly. She has to prove her wrong.

“But Racheal Lynde told Mother that Miss Cuthbert was torn asunder after you left!” she protests, adding an emphasis that seems to shock the redhead briefly.

“Not. Possible” The emphasis is spit right back at her, and she’s not sure what stings more: the sharpness of her voice, or the flash of desperation that passes through the cerulean eyes locked on her.

“Well, that’s what Mother heard.”

“Then why doesn’t she show it? It’s hard to believe she’s sorrowful when she acts like she doesn’t like me at all.”

Diana pauses at this. There’s too much to respond to. She wants to comfort Anne, but simultaneously feels that she must explain to her how proper behavior of a lady forbids such an outburst. It feels misplaced, and she quickly decides not to voice such an opinion.

“At least you’re home.” She puts as much warmth into the statement as possible, and suddenly Anne as flung her arms around her in a tight hug. Her mind goes completely blank. It’s _overwhelming_ , how alive she suddenly feels, and she stutters a bit before returning the gesture.

Anne nestles her head into her shoulder, sniffling a little, and the sensation of warm breath on her neck is pleasant in a way she can’t entirely describe. There’s _something_ about this moment that feels different.

“I don’t mean to seem ungrateful.” Anne pulls away, clasping Diana’s hands in hers while she looks away, almost ashamed. “And it did fill my heart with joy to be back at Green Gables!” Suddenly she flings herself up on the fence, thrusting her head into the wind with a typically dramatic flourish. Diana can’t help but chuckle and follows suit. She’s grateful for the lack of a bow in her hair, as the breeze thrusts it out in a most pleasing manner. She closes her eyes, and lets her head flop back, basking in the relaxing ambiance.

“But I feel they could send me away at any moment.” She opens her eyes to glance at the redhead, finding her staring contemplatively into the distance.

“I can’t think of why they would!” She protests hotly, and the fervent nature of her resistance startles her friend for a second. Her face slumps a little, and she does a little shrug as she climbs off the fence.

“I just don’t want to get too attached. Not if it’s all gonna disappear.” That statement strikes her as odd, causing her to stare a little into the distance. What a queer sentiment, the idea that everything you love can be taken away with little less than a moment’s notice. Oh dear. Anne _actually_ thinks this! A panic bursts inside her. Is that really what she thinks of _her_?

“Anne!” she yells, jumping from the fence. Her friend is already starting to walk away when her head turns back, eyebrow raised inquisitively.

“Diana, wh-” the girl protests, but by then she’s marched up to her, a determined look stamped on her face.

“I _won’t_ disappear.” She says, and Anne’s eyes widen a little as she continues. “We swore an oath and if the dreadful etiquette lessons of Mother have any value to them, it would be very unladylike to betray a friend’s trust.” God in heaven, that was messy. Was the point even clear? She just sort of made it about herself, which is clearly-

An emphatic sniff breaks her focus on her thoughts. Anne’s eyes are watery, yet her smile is the brightest she’s ever seen it. “Your benignant nature is all I could wish for!”

She does not know what benignant means, but she understands the point and returns Anne’s grin.

Anne goes to do something; she’s not sure what. Maybe a hug, or motion to hold her hand. It’s interrupted when she startles, face falling. “Oh! I…I need to get back home. I’m supposed to be helping out with laundry…”

Diana bids her farewell, waving as she runs down a hill. She has so little to compare this to. Is such affection misplaced? No one she knows of had ever discussed such emotional (or rarely even physical) intimacies. She knows what Mother would think; disapproval seems to be one of her few moods.

But as she walks back home, something whispers in her ear, a sentiment that almost made her jolt with the power it contains. She tries to ignore it all day, and her thoughts on Mother are confirmed when Anne shows up to the church social, but she still falls asleep with an embattled mind focused on it.

_What if Mother is wrong?_

* * *

School is a bit of a nightmare. Anne takes on literature in the manner of a starving wolf devouring meat, but chafes at the social aspect. Diana’s question about who could not love Anne are answered when bullies of both sexes make themselves known, and from then on the clique dynamic changes permanently. An intellectual feud with Gilbert Blythe was somehow unsurprising, although she gets uncomfortable observing the way they interact for reasons she cannot fully illuminate.

A week later, Anne almost dies in the fire that consumes the Gillis household. Diana nearly has conniption in the immense amount of grief she feels. When Anne comes running out, soot-faced and groggy, Diana won’t leave her side until Father carries her away.

Good comes out of it though. Ruby becomes a friend, in a way that feels strange. Years of faux interaction, and now Diana knows the girl quite well. Anne’s forested hideaway is very much welcome, a space for just the three of them.

The biggest change though, unknown to all but two, happens when she begins to write.

* * *

“I love bright red drinks, don’t you?” Anne says as she pours some more raspberry cordial into the petite glass. “They taste twice as good as any color.” Diana can’t help but smile at that. Such an ‘Anne’ sentiment, it is.

The idea of a tea party was one she knew all too well. She’d been organizing and attending them at Mother’s behest for years. One run by a certain redhead though, now that was certain to be pleasant, even if so far it was hardly any different from all the others. The right type of company can change everything, she thinks.

“I appreciate your lovely manners.” She purrs in French, and much to her delight Anne seems overjoyed, even if she probably didn’t understand.

“That’s French! You speak French?” she exclaims.

Anne’s eager grin prompts an elegantly-phrased “ _Oui. Je parle français couramment_.”

Her friend leans forward in explanatory zeal. “Could there be anything more perfect than _you_ speaking a romance language?” She exhales slightly, then raises her glass to toast. “My two favorite things together!”

Diana almost spills her cordial. “F-favorite?” That’s what she just said. I’m her _favorite_ , she thinks, a sense of delight rising within her. This thought excites her for a moment, so much so that her hand shakes a little as she goes to toast.

Anne looks a little concerned, and she realizes her face is blushing like a flame. Feeling embarrassed, she deftly changes the subject. Those manners lessons aren’t completely useless.

“Mother plans to send me to finishing school in France.” She figures Anne might respond to more about France.

“R-really?” Anne stutters, just for a second, like this information has caught her off-guard in a most unpleasant way. She recovers smoothly though, in a way that is disconcerting. “Will you take me you? You _have_ to take me with you!”

Again, Diana’s hand jolts a little and she grips the edge of the table for stability. Her imagination steams to life suddenly and all she can see is her and Anne, gallivanting around Paris, trying on the fantastic dresses, browsing the elegant libraries, and the thought _feels_ so natural.

Something in her memory rises up, something that before this point seems completely unremarkable. A visit to the Aunt Josephine and Aunt Gertrude on the mainland, about two years back for her tenth birthday. They’d just had an auction for several pieces of art and still hadn’t totally cleaned up. What caught her eye was a painting in the corner, unnoticed by her parents and Minnie May.

It was called, if she remembered the French correctly, _Sappho and Erinna in a Garden at Mytilene_. The two women were embracing intimately, superseding that basic sense of platonism. It almost looked like Sappho was kissing the other women. The whole thing felt scandalous, in an exciting way. She could barely take her eyes off of it until Mother summoned her to the parlor. She’d forgotten it, yet something about this specific situation just brings it up.

“Diana?” Anne asks, and she realizes she’s been lost in thought mid-sip. Her mind feels heavy, and the edges of her visions have blurred slightly, but instincts finely honed by ettiquite kick in. “I’ll let you come… if you pour me some more,” she says in French, to which Anne responds with “ _Oui_ …?”

They break out into barely stifled giggles. And as the redhead pours her more cordial, Diana finds a niggling thought in her mind about just how _soft_ and _pure_ Anne’s cheeks look. What it be like to press her lips against them?

The thought is shameful; and yet in this altered state of mind she finds it difficult to dispel.

* * *

The world is spinning, but she can hardly find it in her to care. Looting Marilla’s dress closet was a _great_ idea. They look so beautiful right now. They’re noble ladies, on the floor of the ballroom, dancing to a tune none can hear. So what if it’s difficult to keep her thoughts straight?

For once in her life, she doesn’t care _how_ disorderly she’s acting.

Anne’s singing some nonsense song, one that she can’t help but contribute to with her own slurred voice. She never thought she was a great singer, but even through the haze her friend’s voice sounds almost heavenly.

After what seems like hours of fast-paced spinning and prancing around the bedroom, time seems to slow down as they transition into a relaxed waltz. Right now, Anne is her whole world, the only thing she’s capable of and wants to conceptualize in this state.

“It…it’s a shame…,” Anne slurs out, chuckling a little in the process, “that aaaaaaallll the best stories are of,” she pauses to clear a hiccup out of her throat. Some small buried part of Diana wonders why that doesn’t stop her from regarding Anne as beautiful. Lord, has her hair always been such a vibrant shade of scarlet?

“They’re of handsome princes and fair maidens,” the redhead drawls on. She could listen to her for hours, even the sweet nonsense they’ve been babbling about for hours. What does her hair feel like, she wonders, and exchanges holding hands for wrapping them around the back of Anne’s neck. She’d let her braids down when they were still downstairs, and what a glorious moment it was to see the sun accentuate her freckles to match her mane.

Anne gives a relaxed smile, and wraps her hands around Diana’s waist. Is it strange that she’s distinctly aware of every point at which her friend’s hands are in contact with her body?

“Why… why we need a story of _two_ fair maidens!” Anne exclaims, and as they laugh their foreheads inch every so precariously closer together. “We could be princesses together, and I, rather than some gentlemen, could sweep you off your feet and marry you!”

Diana shrieks with glee, as her friend's scrawny arms try their hardest to scoop her up. After a few moments of struggling with a bridal carry, she finds herself dumped on the bed. Anne’s face appears over hers, and she gives a soft smile that the redhead replicates.

She opens her mouth to say something, and then her mother bursts into the room. What words she was about to speak, she isn’t sure. But it feels like something is lost.

“Mother!” she yelps, as she sits up so quickly her head feels a rush, and suddenly she’s being dragged downstairs to face a disappointed Marilla and a seething parent. Anne sidles up next to her, but they both look to the floor in shame.

“My word, Anne,” Miss Cuthbert scolds, sniffing the empty bottle. “You certainly have a genius for getting into trouble.” All the while, Mother paces the floor, looking more furious than she’s ever seen her.

“I didn’t even know I had any currant wine left in the house,” Ms. Cuthbert remarks, and that’s when Mother rounds on her. While Marilla obviously tries to keep a level tone in explaining the oversight, Diana feels Anne’s slim fingers wrap around hers.

“This is the last time my Diana will ever set foot in your house!” Mother insists, and both Cuthberts look shocked. She winces, but it was hardly unexpected. She takes a hard line with nonsense.

“Please, Mrs. Barry,” Anne implores, a sob building in her throat. “I didn’t mean to set Diana drunk.” Mother whirls around, eye twitching.

“You are not a fit little girl for Diana to associate with.” Mother barks. That’s hardly true. Anne is fantastic! This…this is equivalent to slander!

“It was an accident!”

That answer hardly interrupts Mother’s determination to spit out punishments. “Moreover, the girls are not to sit together at school. They are not to fraternize in any manner at any time.”

“No!” Diane cries. Everyone is surprised by her sudden outburst. Anne looks perplexed, Marilla looks on with an embattled mix of bemusement and bewilderment, and Mother’s eyes look like they are bulging out of her head, jaw flapping up and down in speechless disbelief.

“Y-you can’t separate us!” she holds her ground, clenching her friend’s hand with a passionate strength.

“Diana! How-how _dare_ you!” Mother thunders, crossing the room in astonishing time. Suddenly she’s getting pulled away, and even if it’s for a moment, she fights it. As Mother rants on about disobedience and respect, as she gets dragged sobbing out the door, Diana just wishes she could feel Anne’s arms around her waist once more.

* * *

School had been getting better and now it’s all ruined. Diana cries all night, and goes to school with frazzled jet-black hair spilling into her face. Mr. Phillips is quick to separate them as Ruby looks on sympathetically.

During recess, they manage to sneak into the supply closet.

“It isn’t any use,” she bemoans as she relays her fervent efforts to convince Mother the night before, blinking through tears.

Anne looks the most downcast she’s ever seen. “So this is an eternal farewell,” her friend says solemnly.

Diana swallows hard, almost feeling sick to her stomach. To never interact with this amazing girl, to be denied access to her imagination, to never be able to listen to her stories or hold her hand or observe up close that breathtaking auburn hair…

“Then we must speak the most pathetic language that we can think of,” Anne declares. Their hands come together, each tightly gripping the other in a desperate plea for this not to happen.

As part of this ritual, Anne asks that she never be forgotten and all Diana can respond with is “How could I?” She cannot conceive of it, losing memory of a person as invigorating as the girl before her.

Her heart sings suddenly, overwhelming her with _grief_ and in this moment of passion and sorrow, Diana Barry says something that she scarcely though herself possible of feeling before just last month.

“I could _never_ love anyone as much as I love you, Anne,” It feels like the world is ending, for her to wear her heart on her sleeve in this way. Suddenly, everything fits into place for her. She _loves_ Anne, in such a strong, overwhelming way that she can’t seem to think clearly around her.

Her mind can’t grasp it. None of this makes sense! This isn’t what friendship feels like. She blinks a little as everything within her is thrown into a wild confusion.

Anne is similarly floored, it seems.

“Of course I do,” Diana responds desperately when the girl asks for confirmation. “Why don’t you know that?”

Anne looks down for a moment, almost says something, than closes her mouth. “I, I thought you liked me, of course, but I never hoped you loved me.”

“I love you devotedly, Anne. Above all others.” These sentiments are spilling out of her uncontrollably.

She’s still grappling with her realization when she hears, “Then I will always love thee, Diana.”

For one blessed second, she thinks Anne feels the same. This feeling, a burning ember inside her, very nearly bursts into a flame. They lean towards each other, Diana hyperventilating as her thoughts turn to gibberish, as this rush of sensation in her core makes her body feel jittery and it’s as if she’s burning alive. Then she feels arms being wrapped around her.

Anne missed her meaning, mistaking it for some strong romanticism of friendship from literature. And as she pulls away, Diana feels that this moment is full of melancholy, for more reasons than one.

* * *

The weeks with no Anne are hell for her. It _shouldn’t_ be. Yet with her body turned against her, she suffers. Hidden glances across the classroom make her feel excited, then miserable all over again.

It’s unnatural. Disgusting. A violation of the way the Creator made humanity. She tells herself, over and over, until the words become branded into her mind. She prays some, begging God to fix her, _cure_ her of this abominable condition.

She _loves_ Anne. In the same way Prissy loves the teacher, in the same way her parents do each other. And no matter how much she insists to herself that this is wrong, Diana never can rid herself of this fixation. And it hurts. Hurts to know that she is cursed with this unique attraction, hurts that she can’t

She writes more than ever, scribbling down stories of romance turned sour. Every couple of pages, tear stains render whole paragraphs unreadable in minuscule oceans of sorrow. That’s all she seems to want to do, write and cry and think of her. Every once and awhile, there’s no suitor, only two damsels, but she burns these stories in the hearth when she’s finished them.

There are moments, timeless instants in the middle of the night, where the thought of freckled skin and fiery hair ignite a shameful heat within her. This intoxicating feeling builds up, little by little in such a way that it almost makes her feel feverish. One night it’s as if Lucifer himself possesses her. Her hands creep their way under the nightgown to relieve this pressure in a moment of satisfying bliss, the idea of being able to brush her lips against Anne sustaining her efforts. The guilt comes slightly later, as she stares up at the ceiling with wide eyes and a sheen of sweat on her forehead and light bruises on her lips from biting down to suppress any noise of pleasure.

I’ve been using Anne, Diana thinks. Exploiting her kindly-offered friendship to feed this perverted longing. This makes the next day worse. Anne’s attempts to catch her eye provoke an increased feeling of sinfulness, and she storms home to play the most miserable song she can find on the piano. Mother looks weary, but says nothing.

It’s only the panic of Minnie May being sick that allows her to sprint to Green Gables to fetch the person she can think of and not feel shame immediately.

She’s heard tales of what she sees before her now. Not directly, only passed down the grapevine. That in situations where an immediate danger is present, the good soul working to fight said peril shines as if blessed by the Heavens. As she holds her choking sister, begging for assistance divine or mundane, Anne works to get Minnie May to cough. In that moment, her tired, stressed, sweat-and-tear-soaked self sees a scarlet-haired angel, irradiant and pure. Aunt Josephine watches this spectacle with a nervous tension, and she hopes her aunt is observing the same phenomenon that she is, lest she be going mad with infatuation.

Her sister finally clears her throat with a raucous cough, and she lets out a breath she didn’t know she has holding. Anne wraps a comfortable arm around her for support, and the residual anxiety flares up, twisting itself up in her stomach. There’s nothing Diana wants to do more than curl into her friend’s warmth, to doze off with her pressed up against her side. Anne may be an angel, she thinks, but her own unnatural attachment makes her demonic.

* * *

Josephine wasn’t usually interested in children, chattering and irksome beasts that they were. They did their business and she was content to ignore them all. Of course, seeing one so knowledgeable of basic medical procedure go on to save her youngest niece is a bit of a shock to her. So maybe they’re not all useless brats, especially this unique Anne Cuthbert of Green Gables.

She’s no fan of the country. It’s wretched, and full of simpletons, and why on _earth_ her sister had chosen to move to Avonlea was a total mystery. The only reason why she’s even here is that after Gertrude’s funeral, she couldn’t bear to face that massive house by herself. Why, she’d break. Yet contrary to her previous prejudices, some farmhand girl displays an inordinate amount of brains, most curious indeed. She’ll have to ask Diana about the child when she woke up.

Diana…oh. Something stirs in her mind. The covert glances she sent towards her friend. The look in her eye when this was all over, when the girls got into bed together. Her sister, it seemed, had instilled a masterful sense of self-control with her frankly ridiculous manners lessons. But the eyes always betray.

And now that she thinks about it, that look is quite intimately familiar. A memory slowly drifts into her consciousness, of going to visit her lover’s family with her years and years ago. They were used to having to hide their romance. They both knew what everyone but their carefully chosen confidantes would think of them.

The whole visit was dreadfully dull, and it was spent wistfully gazing at each other until further intimacies could be done in private. That yearning look, full of both restraint and a love that made one feel like their insides were aflame.

Now that she recognizes it, as she peers into the door of their room, it all clicks together. As she watches her niece presumably admiring a sleeping Anne, rather than dozing off herself, she can’t help but smile tightly.

There’s little she can say to make Diana’s life easier. Josephine’s not sure if the girl even recognizes what she’s feeling.

What she does know is that her niece’s existence is about to get several times more complicated.

* * *

“Are they unpleasant to look at?’ Anne asks, concern seeping into her voice, and Diane is forced to think that her life may be a satirical novel, with what ridiculousness she was enduring.

She, Anne, Ruby, Tilly, and Jane had gathered in the Cuthbert home to socialize. In the several months after the redhead had curried favor with Mother by saving Minnie May (and probably through Aunt Josephine placing significant pressure on her), their circle of friends had expanded, as other girls came around to seeing the virtues of Anne. She was proud of this, that although it took some time others could come to perceive her as an acquaintance. This burgeoning social scene had thankfully helped them in pushing back against their nastier peers.

Through all this, through the gold fever and finally giving up parts of training to be a lady and meeting Cole, her strange love for Anne hasn’t been suppressed successfully. Instead it has grown, like some foul weed, rooting itself within her soul.

So it’s quite unfair that of course, Anne insisted upon some fantastical game involving feathers and describing lips. For her attraction is becoming unruly in the moment and she sits with her heart thumping wildly as Anne looks expectantly for an answer to whether her lips were pleasing to look at.

Luckily, her indefatigable drive to stay collected and maintain social grace takes over the act of talking from her stuttering mind. “They are perfectly pink and luscious.” What in _God’s name_ is she saying? As her hand rubs Anne’s arm in what is meant to be reassuring, she then has to force herself to remove it. Any second now she’s convinced Anne will react with disgust, having perceived what abominable lust she has for her. But all that happens is her freckled face relaxing in relief.

“Diana…” the redhead starts, pausing for thought, and she readies herself for whatever elegant praise she’ll hear. “You have without a doubt have the best, most kissable Cupid’s bow. The brightest smile to light any heart.” Anne’s informative look is ruined by the pink that tinges her cheeks. She’s too preoccupied with her own sensation of being aflame to think about it. The thought of such a fantasy coming true, feeling feminine lips pressed against hers, heralding the start of something more than friendship, it’s like a barb has ripped through her heart. A stinging reminder that what she feels is _wrong_ , that girls are supposed to interact like this with no expectation of courtship, that the outlier is _her_.

Jane brings up something about her sister and Mr. Phillips, and she’s grateful for the distraction from her flushed and awkward silence. The chatter phases into the background as she focuses on grounding herself in the present and escaping from the fantasies that plague her mind. She’s found that focusing on her own breathing helps.

In, out. In, out. In… out.

“Diana?” Anne’s calling brings her out of the self-induced trance.

“Huh?”

“I was saying that you could play the gallant young man.” She looks down at her expectantly, so she just nods slowly, as if she understood. The redhead transitions from concern right back into excitement.

There’s a silly little ritual with a feather and then Anne drops it. It drifts through the air, back and forth, settling in front of Tilly. Diana plays along, with the dramatic dip back and peck to the Rubenesque girl’s cheek, to giggles and applause. The whole affair is theatrical in more ways than one. While she pretends to be a nobleman, she’s also pretending that she’s trying to stop herself from leaving the room.

It’s almost amusing, that instinct to flee. In spite of the obsession that God has cursed her with, she finds it easier _not_ to be around Anne. When she’s not around, she can fantasize about a life of romance with an impossible partner. She can, every once and awhile, imagine what love would _feel_ like, the hand-holding and kissing and other things that would mean so much more in this hypothetical.

She doesn’t have to be confronted with a reality that pains her.

* * *

“Whomever the bottle points to, you are permitted to kiss.” Josie sneers. She always sneers. It’s her permanent mannerism.

The entire class is gathered in a circle, because for some reason everyone seems to have lost their minds and decided that listening to a scornful bully with more bark than bite. Diana doesn’t _really_ want to be here. There’s only one reason as to why she isn’t walking home, and that’s the fact that Anne will wander eagerly into any social event in order to figure out its intricacies. To imagine her doe-eyed friend get eviscerated in front everyone by her crueler peers is painful, and so she finds herself here, in a game of spin-the-bottle of all things. Her cynicism is clearly shared by Cole, who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.

Cole is an interesting addition as a friend. He’s softer and much more imaginative than the other boys. He loves the games they play, loves the solitude it gives him. It feels nice to be able to support someone when they clearly have no one else.

She sits, her calm-faced boredom contrasting with her friend’s mild interest. The bottle is spun, some people kiss. A small part of her asks what would happen if two boys or girls were picked. Would there be the same tittering and shy smiles? Would there be gasps, or faces curled in disgust, or even a refusal? She can’t say. The hidden possibility of it landing on her and Anne titillates her for a second, before she remembers that she’s not _supposed_ to be excited. Chiding herself internally even as the feeling refuses to die, she forces herself to look even more bored.

The bottle comes to Anne, and she tries to maintain disinterest, even as her eyes gravitate uncontrollably towards her. Anne’s pale hand is mere centimeters above the bottle before Billy, the cumberground that he is, decides to speak up.

“I’m out. No way. Ugly orphan.” He sniggers, and that trigger a wave of it from most of the boys, minus Cole and a few others. Diana’s mouth flies open, retort forming in her throat, when Anne’s reaction catches her eye. More accurately, her _lack_ of response.

She’s staring into space, eyes wide in fear. Her hands are trembling intensely, and Anne looks like she’s a million miles away. Worry blossoms within her. She moves to Anne quickly, placing her hands on her shoulders. The redhead almost looks like she’s dreaming.

“What’s the matter, Anne? Have you ever been kissed?” Josie says with mock concern. It’s this comment that seems to awaken her from her daze, jolting Anne back like a powder-shot. Is she… _remembering_ something? It’s the sort of look that elders get when they are recalling unpleasant memories from their youth. The fact that Anne shares an expression with people who fought in literal wars is terrifying.

“Ye-…” Anne starts, still not totally rooted in the here and now. She was going to say _yes_. Anne’s kissed someone and for some reason it dredges up something horrible. Her overwhelming concern is shadowed by an inkling of jealousy that anyone got to do it all. It’s shameful, the selfish depths she sinks to.

“No!” Anne yells, and in the blink of an eye is on her feet, grabbing her jacket and lunging for the door. “Now you’ve done it, you oaf!” Cole shouts at Billy, provoking the whole room to lapse into an argument mostly drawn on lines of sex. Diana has no interest in this squabbling. She _has_ to get to her friend. She pushes people aside as she stumbles to the door. Then Josie scoffs as she is about to rush out the door.

Suddenly she sees red. She doesn’t feel her hand reel back, nor does she feel it as the palm of her hand strikes Josie’s face. It’s only when she’s realized that the room had gone silent that she sees the blond girl sprawled on the floor, looking at her with shock and a small bit of fear as she rubs the bright-red mark on her cheek.

She’s still furious, but seeing Josie taken down a notch feels _great_! “Have you ever attempted to _not_ be so selfish?” She spits out, and then she remembers that her friend is outside, distressed. She sends a murderous glare towards Billy before wrenching the door open, storming out into the chilly evening air.

She can’t find her anywhere. She runs down the path, unable to see any trace of Anne, and with every second she grows more and more fearful. It’s only until she’s made it to the tufts of the tall dead grass that she sees a weeping, curled-up figure.

She stops to take a breath, panting heavily as she makes her way over to Anne.

“Anne, are y-” she stops as teary eyes meet hers. Obviously she’s not okay. Idiot! Setting aside her guilt, she sits beside her friend, ignoring the way the cold snow seeps through her jacket.

“T-that Josie Pye!” Anne sobs, mittens furiously trying to wipe away the onslaught of tears. “For all her l-lack of imagination, she certainly knows how to i-invent clever methods of torture!”

She’s not totally sure how to process this. That Anne may have been bashful, or a little scared, well that was to be expected! For her to freeze up, look like she’s having a nightmare, then run out the door in tears? It’s baffling and she really can’t imagine what would lead to such an association.

“Anne…” she rubs her hand in a circular motion on the small of her back, “what’s wrong?” Some part of her feels like she’s exploiting her friend, using this moment of weakness to burrow into her like a parasite. She tenses a little, but forces herself to not show any reaction.

Anne continues to cry. Tears keep coming and coming, more than she’s ever seen. Slowly, Anne begins to lean onto her shoulder, then eventually lowers her head into Diana’s lap. Luckily, her lust seems to be restrained in this tender moment, replaced with a relaxed affection.

As the weeping fades away, Anne sniffles a little. “When I… froze, all I could _see_ , all I could _hear_ was the derision and intimidation from the asylum.” Diana stiffens. Ah. She’d never had to face such tyranny from her peers.

“Being called homely, a witch, repulsive, unwanted,” she winces as she struggles to say each insult. Anne nestles into Diana more, like a wounded animal. Diana begins to runs her fingers through her unbraided fiery hair, and Anne seems to relax a little.

“There was t-this girl. I could never q-quite understand her motivation. She would…,” she can feel Anne swallow heavily, “lay a kiss upon my cheek, then adopt a most sour face and belittle me still.”

Diana freezes, hand still tangled in a wave of hair. It is uncomfortable to think of, this abuse being heaped upon the most wonderful, intelligent, and beautiful person she knows. And then something falls into place.

How _easy_ it would be, to hate Anne. To despise her flirtatious manner, the casual way in which she seems to verge on romantic inclinations before unknowingly crushing that hope. To begrudge her, just for being the kind hearted and loving person she was. All she had to do was be malicious, drive her away with mean remarks, get Anne to hate _her_. But Anne would never hate her. She’d blame herself. And for however easy it may be, to hurt Anne would rip Diana apart.

Her silence seems to stoke insecurity. “It’s foolish, I know, to be reminded of it from such harmless events.”

“No… no,” she declares, “It is not foolish in any capacity.” Anne pivots her head to look up at her from her lap, mouth open in surprise. She continues, “A few of our classmates are… are…” she thinks quickly to find the most encyclopedic insults she can, “pillocks and jobbernowls!”

Anne giggles intensely, a broad smile appearing on her face. Such a sight is wonderful, and she wishes that she had a camera so this outpouring of joy could be captured for all time. Her gaze is captured by her friend’s own, cool blue eyes pulling her in until she’s captivated. The rest of the world seems to vanish until it is only them present in that moment.

Diana leans forward slightly, almost unconsciously, head inching forward, _lips_ inching forward. Then Anne jolts up suddenly, climbing off her lap to stand up. The moment is shattered and it feels like she’s been punched in the chest.

It’s difficult to feel miserable though; her love seems to be fed by joy more than sorrow. Anne has spotted what seems to be a majestic hawk, previous sorrows seemingly forgotten. Her eyes are full of wonder and Diana can’t help but gaze fondly upon her.

“Come on!” the redhead shouts, pointing into the trees, and as she’s dragged into the forest by hand, Diana thinks that she could probably do this forever.

* * *

Of course, this rush doesn’t last. Tomorrow comes, and with it comes a dreaded repeat of spin-the-bottle.

As per Josie’s standard fare, the ridiculous game starts with her calling Cole a freak.

“Josie Pye, you take that back!” Anne insists “Cole is my friend!” The blond scowls back, and Diana takes pleasure in noting the not-quite-concealed mark still upon her cheek. “Then it’s a match made in heaven.” The bully retorts back. Anne is about to say something back, but to her disappointment Cole stops her with a gesture. Josie needs a good verbal thrashing. Ah, the pleasure of telling Anne about the slap! The redhead had compared her to a courageous knight, with Anne as the princess in need of rescuing. She likes this comparison. Usually the knight and princess get married at the end. That’d be nice.

The same bottle is placed in front of Anne. “Spin,” Josie growls out, sending another scowl towards Diana after she rolls her eyes and scoffs.

Anne looks a little nervous, but she gives it a hard twist, giving a defiant look in Josie’s direction. Round and round it goes, scraping the floor in an almost musical way. As it slows, the circle of children lean forwards in anticipation. Finally, it drifts to a stop.

And its cap is pointing towards _her_.

Diana’s mind goes completely blank as a gasp echoes through the room. Some small, still-functioning part of her mind wants to call them all idiots. It couldn’t always land on someone of the opposite sex!

Anne looks paler than usual, so white that her freckles stand out like islands in an endless ocean. Her throat is dry as they both stand up. Everyone seems at a loss for words, and Cole is staring with the most peculiar look on his face.

They shuffle towards each other, surrounded by gawking onlookers. I should feel satisfied, she thinks, that kissing Anne is finally a reality. This was _never_ how she wanted it to be, an awkward spectacle with her classmates as an audience.

Anne leans in first, face completely devoid of emotion. Diana feels paralyzed, unable to move as her lips pucker and press against her cheek. It is absent of any feeling.

The game ends right then and there, an unspoken agreement that is no longer fun. And of course, Anne and Diana have to walk back home together.

Neither of them say a word, Diana because she doesn’t know what she would say. How would she confront this new thing between them? Why has God cursed her doubly so, afflicting her with this desire and then allowing something like this to happen? She realizes suddenly that Anne is no longer tensely walking beside her. She turns around, about to call out her name, when she sees her friend standing stock-still in the forested path.

Anne looks like she’s in intense pain. Her fists are clenched, she’s biting her lip, and her face is contorted in a way she can’t describe. Diana’s instincts override her rational mind, and she rushes into a tight hug with the girl.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” Anne murmurs into her ear, and she pulls away, hands on her friend’s shoulder.

“Anne Cuthbert, what are you apologizing for?” Diana asks, looking insistently at her.

“Y-you obviously didn’t want that, the…the k-kiss and I just did it because I-I didn’t want to retreat again. I’m li-like that girl, no different…” she trails off, refusing to look at her. What gi- _oh_. The one from the asylum. _Somehow_ , Anne thinks she’s a bad person. “I’m homely and malevolent a-and-” 

“You stop that!” she scolds, and when Anne flinches back, she has to take a moment to funnel her passions into positivity.

“You are the most wonderful, creative, clever, and kind person I know,” Anne looks almost blown away by the compliments, and the surprise on her face gives her the courage to continue, “and if I may say, quite pleasing to the eye.”

Anne’s eyes go wide, face mantling with emotion. “Diana, y-you can’t mean that! You’re the one w-who’s beautiful, not me!” She stutters out.

“Have I ever lied to you?” She grins playfully, feeling a burst of joy within her.

Anne finally grins bashfully, ducking her head it in a vain attempt to hide the smile. “Diana, I’m so glad you’re exquisite.” Her own faces flushes from the accolade. It’s then that a _mood_ takes over. It’s again, a playful sense of mind, but it’s mixing with her own desire for more, and she finds herself not fully in control of her own words and actions.

“In fact, to repay this imagined slight, I guess I shall have to show that no harm was done.” Anne looks very curious, but not hesitant. So she does it. She really does it.

She leans in quickly, pecking Anne on the lips.

Immediately reality crashes down around her. Now she’s done it, she’s messed it all up. Her first real friendship, where it’d gone beyond the superficiality expected of girls her age, beyond petty rivalries and into something so much more. It’s over now. Anne’s going to be disgusted. She’ll pull away at any second, run back home, and tell Marilla and Matthew. Mother will be livid, and she’ll be sent to France early to get this desire conditioned out of her.

This continues not to happen, much to Diana’s confusion. The blushes haven’t gone away on either of their faces, and Anne just continues to stare in confusion. Suddenly Anne reacts. And she’s…happy?

“Diana Barry, you have definitely compensated for any misery my worrying may have caused to my own person.” She says with mock seriousness, and begins to walk down the branch of the path that leads to Green Gable.

“I’ll see you tomorrow!” Anne calls joyously, and she waves back in stunned silence. Wh-what? That actually happened. She _kissed_ Anne. She kissed _Anne_. _She_ kissed Anne. And their friendship seems fine. Maybe she should be bittersweet. Or mournful that nothing else came out of it. Or disturbed that this unnatural affection is so imbued within her psyche.

Yet she can’t possibly feel any negative emotion right now. As she starts home with a smile on her face and a skip in her step, she can only feel like she’s on top of the world.

* * *

Fingers fly over black and white keys with unimaginable speed, weaving a song from the melodious yarn that flows from the piano. Diana absorbs this, caught in beauty she never thought she’d hear with her own ear.

Aunt Josephine’s annual party had always been popular, at least according to Aunt Josephine (who may have had some conflict of interest in describing it as such). The theme was of a Flower Ball this year, and the floral decorations that are strewn everywhere prove that her aunt doesn’t mess around with these events. The fact that a scheme involving Cole as a chaperone has also gone unquestioned thankfully.

Being with Anne is strange. There’s a connection that seems to transcend what was there previous to the Forest Kiss (the properly exciting name for a moment that is of utmost importance in her mind), and yet it’s as if her friend refuses to even address it. Everything is just normal, and this hiatus from invigorating instances has caused her to try and suppress the desire all over again. As much as it makes her love Anne, it still is abominable. It is surely some malediction sent by the Lord himself to punish her, though for what she still has yet to find out.

Even with the hair she loves so much trimmed down extensively from a mishap with black dye, she can’t help but stare with loving wonder at Anne, as the short strands of red contrast vividly with the multicolored flower crown. The redhead turns, meets her eye, and grins excitedly. A spike a guilt surges through her, and she compels her head to turn back towards Cécile Chaminade and her wonderful music.

It’s only when the French pianist ends with a flourish and wild applause breaks out that Diana gets a good look at the crowd. It’s not the racial diversity that is curious; being close to the city, such a mix of Oriental, Indian, White, and Negro was hardly uncommon. What causes her to take note is the queerness of some specific guests.

There’s a lady dressed in a gentlemen’s suit and a top hat, white powder covering her face. There’s men who seem to be in dresses, acting fully like the opposite sex, and women with makeup that makes it look like they are bearded. There are individuals where she cannot even identify their sex, androgyny clouding certain judgement. More and more, she notices these standout individuals, and their curious accumulation here.

She’s snapped out of her contemplations by her aunt hurrying over, obviously eager. “Oh, I have been so excited for you. Cécile wants to meet!” She barely has a second to comprehend the idea that a famous pianist wants to meet her before Josephine drags her over and begins to make small talk. She keeps her eye down until the pianist turns her head to look at her.

“And this is my niece, Diana.” She can’t help but smile nervously. “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Chaminade.” She says in French, attempting (pitifully) to impress this celebrity which stands before her.

“ _Magnifique! Je suis ravi aussi!”_ the musician responds, leaning back a little in pleasant surprise.

“Diana is a budding pianist.” Josephine chimes in, side-eyeing Cécile almost conspiratorially. “Ah,” the pianist hums, looking even more interested.

“Give her a little glimpse into your life, won’t you?” her aunt prods, and Cécile offers up some details. She gets to travel the globe, something which Diana can hardly comprehend. This very manor has consistently been the farthest from home she’s been!

“It is an incredible life,” she continues, “if you don’t mind hard work… and travel.” The pianist flashes a blinding grin. “Is it something you aspire to, Diana?”

This is confusing. “Aspire to?” She’s going to grow up to get married, to a gentleman who picks her hand. She will repent until her attraction to the fairer sex is cast away. She will bear children and raise them. One could hardly have a _career_.

Cécile looks equally perplexed. “With your music.” Josephine looks a little more concerned, but attempts to clarify further “A career, dear. Your piano.”

“Oh… well, no.” Both women blink in surprise, though she’s not totally sure why. “I suppose I could keep it up on a recreational basis, if it were agreeable to my husband.” As it much as it hurts, this is obviously the only path she has. Mother and Father would hardly allow anything else, and besides, that just what young ladies _did_. That was simply a women’s future.

“Look around, dear,” her Aunt insists, gesturing with her head to the people mulling around behind her. And she does. That’s when another aspect of the room makes itself clear: no one seems to be interacting in the way she’s used to. Men and women are just being… _casual_. There doesn’t seem to be a hint of marriage or courtship anywhere!

Josephine moves to her, placing a hand on Diana’s shoulder. “Despite what you’ve been told, your life doesn’t have to be an exact replica of your parents.”

 _What_.

“ _Vrai_!” the pianist cuts in. “Marriage is wonderful, _if_ love is why you marry.” She’s unable to move, unable to think. She suddenly feels very fragile, a cracked porcelain vase ready to drop at any moment.

Josephine continues. “But perhaps you’d like something more than simply keeping a house.”

“I-I…” she stammers, but her mind can’t function. She just blinks more, as the world comes crashing down around her, as she shatters.

T-that…that was how things are _supposed_ to happen. Women tend the home, raise the children, and serve their husbands. Sure, she knows this isn’t always true and that she may be bothered by the future she’s been consigned to, but it is simply how it works out. _It’s just how society functions_.

Yet here presents another door which has been opened, a destiny _she_ can determine. Marriage isn’t a certainty, a career is a real possibility, even with this temptation, she can barely conceptualize it, much less the idea that literally everything she’s been taught to think about her future is wrong.

“You must play something for us, _mon chérie_ ,” the musician beckons, but she’s not much in a state to play anything. “Oh, no, I-I’m not-”

Josephine seems to take an almost thoughtful expression. “There are a variety of futures available to you. Some may even include Anne…” Diana’s face goes from ghost-pale to tomato-red in a second, while Cécile giggles a little watching her almost chokes on air.

“Excuse me. Uh…l-l-lovely to meet you.” Diana shifts from one foot to the other and then darts away. She can feel her aunt’s concerned eyes follow her. She manages to work her way to the top of the small pair of stairs that lead from the living room to the performing area, staring out at the mingling crowd.

Anne spots her, and makes her way to where she stands. She smiles, for Anne feels like the pillar to her collapsing psyche. “Diana, isn’t this just the most amazing group of people?”

That wasn’t what was supposed to happen, she thinks as her face falls. Anne was supposed to be as estranged as she was and they could talk about all these queer individuals. Then again, of course Anne is flourishing in this crowd. It’s lively and unique, it makes one feel special. It’s everything that she _isn_ ’ _t_.

But she says none of this, because to crush Anne’s feelings would be the most grievous thing she could do. Instead, she weakly stutters out, “I…d-don’t know what to think.”

“Me neither!” Anne laughs, and she can only muster up a thin smile that doesn’t reach her the rest of her face. Her friend, wrapped up in all she sees around her, doesn’t notice. “Well, I’d better go practice.” Anne says, leaning down slightly to give her a hug. This is the most firm she’s felt all day, and she never wants to leave Anne’s lithe arms. As Anne walks away, she blankly stares out over the crowd as a contradiction makes itself clear. She logically _shouldn’t_ be able to love another girl the way she does. She should desire boys, as is natural. If this lust is so accursed, then why does it _feel_ so amazing, to swoon over Anne?

She manages to pretend to not be lost in her own head, but that’s about all she can do: pretend. Her life is one of superficial glamour, of an ugly purity that lacks any creativity or spirit or imagination. So as the evening comes, one question resounds in her mind: why does Anne even _bother_ spending time with her? Her stories are dull and morose, her mind mundane. She’s the very antithesis of her friend.

So when the toast comes, she’s still standing there, an artificial smile stretched on her face. Aunt Josephine talks about Aunt Gertrude, relaying how they met and their life of companionship, and the part of her that isn’t focused on degrading herself notes that Aunt Gertrude sounds a great deal like Anne, all books and romanticism and wild ideas that Josephine could not always grasp.

Hearing this, the story of two friends who could live together through the years, her mind experiences a vivid burst of memory. It’s back to the day when she and Anne had been allowed to see each other again, when Mother had finally relented after Anne had saved her sister. Gertrude had just passed away, and she had to explain to her friend her aunt’s living situation.

“Her companion?” Anne had asked, still smiling from the excitement of the reunion. As they walked through the woods, the crunch of fresh snow under their feet accompanying each word. “Her best friend forever and ever,” was the response that _seemed_ right at the time. She’d explained that neither of them married, despite their life-long residence with each other.

“I’d live with you forever if I could.” Anne had declared, an affectionate zeal in her voice. It had ignited that shameful feeling, so intense in that moment, had she spoken, she would’ve confessed her love right then and there.

“But I know you’ll leave me to get married to some wealthy and handsome gentlemen.” the redhead had continued, and now that Diana thinks about it, had there been a tinge of disappointment she’d missed? She had been too focused on the cold sensation that had slithered into her stomach. It was such a disappointing moment, the reinforcement that any emotions on her part are abnormal. Her future was a set path, and infatuation with Anne couldn’t change that.

“I hate him already.” Anne had snarked, and there _had_ to be something in those pale eyes that implied something more serious. The Diana of the past had been too focused on the thought that she also already despised whatever future husband she would get.

Now though, the conversation feels important for a multitude of reasons. She’s missing something, a factor or connection that is crucial for understanding her aunts in this context.

Glasses are raised around her and Diana has to urge her arm upwards to mimic the gesture. The lady in the top hat steps forward a little.

“To the most wonderful couple.” Wait, wh- “My romantic ideal, Gertie and Jo.”

Josephine looks touched, and a cry of “Here, here!” echoes through the room.

Diana’s arm falls, champagne spilling unnoticed on the carpet. ‘Romantic ideal’ echoes through her mind, and-

And-

…

Time passes. Or maybe it doesn’t. She isn’t really sure. She can’t think, can’t move, can’t _breathe_. Music starts up from somewhere and suddenly her hands are being taken by someone as people around her assemble into a waltz. This might actually be worse than the dance when she was _drunk_.

Suddenly, Anne’s face is right in front of hers, that freckled nose mere centimeters from her own. “Diana?” she asks, worry written all over her face. They’re barely dancing anymore, just sort of awkwardly swaying.

“F…f-f…” She’s really struggling to form words. “Fi-fine. I am fine.” She’s not even trying to look convincing, all her carefully built masks of etiquette having crumbled at the toast. But she _can’t_ share this. It’s all too much.

Anne raises an eyebrow. “You look like you’ve had quite a disturbance. Are you ill? What’s wrong?”

She ignores the question, not purposefully. Her mind has turned near completely inward, unable to grasp any thought of substance. All at once, a serene sense of doubt descends over her. She must have misinterpreted. Hah! _Romantic ideal_. Her own attraction is tainting her perception.

“W-what do you suppose that women in the hat meant…” she trails off as Anne seems to take her speech as a sign that she is fine, and moves their entwined hands in a soft dance. Any other time, this would have been a moment that would have ignited that heat in her belly. Now, it’s background noise to a much larger crisis.

“Hm?”

“What she meant when she said that Aunt Josephine and Gertrude were her romantic ideal?”

Anne cocks her head curiously, dragging her along in a dance all the while. “Oh, well, they were in love!”

With that, she breaks.

How? How is that _possible_? This lust was supposed to be a punishment, a devilish thing. Some ailment that she was meant to cure. This implies that it’s not just her. It’s touched one of the family members she loves the most. _It’s not unique to her_.

The implications of this shock Diana to her core. Others have this _thing_. And as evidenced by her aunts, it’s possible to live a satisfying life full of love and fulfillment. She really can’t wrap her mind around it. Anne keeps talking, saying something about while it’s sad that Josephine’s suffered a loss, it’s lovely to see the life they lived together. A giggle punctuates the meaningful comment.

Her mouth, seeming oblivious to the revelation that is crashing through her head. “No!” she cries, a little louder than expected. People dancing near them eye her a little before resuming their revelries. Anne jolts back in surprise, though their hands stay intertwined. “I-I’ve known them all my life. They… they c-can’t have…”

Oh lord. “They weren’t.” _They were._

It feels like she’s been run over by a train. The truth finally hits her. She’s being forced to reconcile this strange, amazing, terrible fact against everything she knows. Against every depressive fit she’s ever had. Against every time she’s destroyed any imagined scene of a perfect future with Anne.

 _Anne_. If the thought alone is breaking her mind, the path from here regarding her friend is so much more confusing. She focuses on reality again. Anne’s face had fallen. The redhead looks almost ill, and her eyes seem to be shimmering. She can’t comprehend what any of it means. She doesn’t want to.

“I… I…” Diana’s hands are trembling as she refuses to make eye contact. And then she flees. Her feet, going off of instinct, run to her aunt’s bedroom. She slams the door shut and crawls onto the bed, adopting a fetal position in the center of it.

Something catches her eye. On a dresser close to the door is a framed picture. Two women, one in a suit and one in a dress. The way they gaze at each other, it’s the way she knows she stares at Anne when the girl gets a glint in her eye that indicates an idea forming, or when she bites her lip when deep in thought, or when she runs and her crimson hair spills out behind her, glinting magically in the sun.

She finds herself crying, fat tears spilling down her face as she curls up even more. She doesn’t know why; cohesive thoughts aren’t formed, just choking sobs.

It feels like hours, or minutes. Time isn’t a force that affects her in the moment. So when comfortable, warm hands make their way around her shoulders.

“Now, now dear,” Aunt Josephine whispers into her ear, and Diana finds herself leaning against her aunt. She feels a handkerchief wipe across her tear-stained cheeks. “If you are weeping, rather than I, clearly the mood of this party has taken a turn for the worst.”

Diana sniffles and leaves a smear on the blue ruffles that adorn her sleeves as she wipes her nose. “I-It’s nothing,” she whimpers, but Josephine tuts and sits down on the bed. “What’s troubling you, my dear?”

Her devastated mind goes through a moment of panic, wildly searching for a way to conceal herself from her aunt’s probing concern, before she gives up. She’s _tired_ , and sick of keeping everything bottled up. Her secret has grown restless and it longs to fly free. Here’s the perfect person to tell

“For w-well over a year, I…I’ve been afflicted with t-the most unusual affection,” Diana mumbles while Josephine listens attentively. “I find m-myself consumed with a-a passion, in the way a man loves a woman, towards another g-gi-girl.”

“It’s Anne, isn’t it?” How does she _know_? She nods shamefully.

“Oh, Diana,” her aunt sighs, tilting her chin up to meet her eye. “Would you like to know something?” Josephine closes her eyes for a moment, then refocuses her eyes on Diana. “You remind me so much of myself.”

“W-wha…?” she sputters. “B-but you’re so strong! And intelligent, and driven, and…and…” she picks her head up and rests it on her knees. “I’m just weak. I’m nothing like you.”

“Nonsense!” Aunt Josephine scolds, wagging her finger in an exaggerated way. Diana chuckles a little and shifts a little to look at the women. “You are all of those things and more.” She declares, hardening her eyes when she opens her mouth to try and contradict her. “You have more strength and creativity than you know. If you sit there, and compare yourself to Anne all your life, you _will_ grow up to be this miserable person you think you are now.”

Diana thinks hard on this. She’ll have to work on it. Self-comparison with her secret flame had been made into a habit. Purging this from her mind will be _exhausting_. Yet… she hardly wants to be this shell of a person. She wants to be herself, to be able to live without dragging herself down.

“And as for Anne…” Josephine continues, a look of bemusement slipping onto her face, “you two seem to have been dancing around each other like harlequins!” No… _No_. It couldn’t be. “But you listen to me first.” She clasps Diana’s hands in her own, staring right into her eyes. “This sensation, this… sapphic tendency, is _not_ a curse. People are capable of loving one another, across barriers of sex frowned upon by most.”

The words sear themselves into her brain. _Not a curse_. What she is feeling, what she had been feeling, is just love, nothing less. Hearing it is wonderful, like an anvil has been lifted from her chest. It’s freedom; pure and simple. She’s not Diana, the girl cursed with an ungodly attraction, she’s just Diana, the girl who loves girls. _And that is okay_.

“In fact, your redheaded friend had a discussion with me several hours previous.” Josephine stands up, patting down her short dress. “Among other topics of discussion certain… comparisons were made of her to my Gertrude.” Her aunt smiles fondly. “And if you’re me and she’s Gertrude…” Josephine coughs a little, smiling unsubtly. “I believe your Mr. Cole is instilling some courage into young Miss Cuthbert.” Does that mean…oh Lord, she thinks it just might. All of a sudden her heart is pounding and she can feel the color coming back to her pallid tone. Nervous excitement flashes through her.

Josephine gives a short little laugh. “That got you all interested!” She opens the door, and Diana can hear hushed whispers going quiet suddenly. Anne steps into the room tentatively and her aunt winks a little over the girl. “I’ll leave you two to figure it out.” The door closes with a slight thump.

For the first time since they met, Anne seems reserved, almost shy. Diana doesn’t know what to say either, so she awkwardly scoots over on the bed to make room for her friend. Anne climbs onto the bed, crossing her legs.

Her friend lets out a sigh. “In America…” Anne says, pausing for a bit. Diana turns to look at her, face crinkled in confusion. Where was she going with this? “In America, there is a concept known as a Boston marriage, where two women will cohabit a house, acting as if they are a couple in wedlock.”

She’s not sure why, but she starts to laugh. A deep, boisterous guffaw that makes her flop back onto the bed, nearly choking as the giggles and howls echo through the room. Oh, how hilarious this all is! All this time spent brooding and admiring from afar, and here they both are awkwardly trying to confess their love. It’s rich! And then she brings up _marriage_? It’s just too much!

Her peals of laughter are gradually joined by Anne’s own. Her laugh is a unique mix of giggles, wheezes, and snorts. On anyone else, it’d be quite unattractive, but it fits the redhead just right. As Anne lies down next to her, heavy breaths mixing with chuckles, she lets out a dramatic breath.

“So… when you said you ‘loved me devotedly,’ you- oh dear, you were being _romantic_. In _that_ sort of way.” Anne suddenly sits up, looking at her with wide eyes. “Diana… I didn-”

“It’s fine,” she cuts off, resting on her arms as she gazes at her friend, head quirked slightly. “I was being very emotional about all of it, I suppose.”

Anne throws her hands up in the air in protest. “Because you’re hopelessly in love with me, and I’ve been fairly reluctant to express any reciprocal feelings because I feared your reaction to them!” she exclaims, “It’s a sensation that is uniquely involved with one’s emotions!”

The redhead blushes wildly when she realizes what she just said. Diana takes a sharp breath, noting that her heartbeat has increased again and her palms have become clammy. “I suppose that was an intense way to describe it. Yet I’m not clear if there’s a difference between love and lust and infat-” Anne’s babbling a little, and she looks so cute when she does. _Cute?_ Some part of her mind asks. The rest of it tells it to shut up as her thoughts slip away to focus on Anne.

There’s this drive within her, this rush of feeling that overwhelms any rational function of her psyche and forces her forward. “And then there is always being smitten, which-” Diana cuts her off as her lips collide with Anne’s, interrupting the redhead’s flustered rant.

It almost feels _magical_ , in a way she would usually find disgustingly stereotypical to the romance genre. Anne gasps, and the rush of hot breath against her cheek encourages Diana to keep going. When Anne kisses back, it’s as invigorating as a lightning bolt. They knock teeth a couple of times, and their inexperience is clear in the awkward way their lips are pressed against each other. It’s _perfect_.

When they pull away mutually, their eyes are wide open. “W-well then!” Diana exclaims, clasping Anne’s hand suddenly. Her voice is quite breathy, in a way that shamelessly communicates her enjoyment.

“I suppose we’re kindred spirits in more ways than one.” Anne grins and she can’t help but roll her eyes as she puts her head in the redhead’s lap and they lie back together. Anne’s slim fingers begin threading their way through her hair. For the first time in a _very_ long time, she feels content.

This is hardly the end to her troubles. There’s tomorrow, where she’ll have to go home to continue to conceal this lust-turned-relationship. Anne will likely do the same, although she’ll really have to talk with her about being careful around Ruby and the others. She’ll have to continually reassure herself when she wakes up that this is _real_. And she’ll have to begin what looks to be the lengthy path to dislodging these hateful sentiments that have run rampant in her mind for the past year and a half.

But she can put off thinking of the future. For now, she’s content to cuddle up next to Anne, soaking in the warmth of her body, feeling her hands work their way through her hair, listening to the lackadaisical tune Anne is humming.

If this moment decides to last forever… she won’t protest.

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully I wasn't too cringy. Having never experienced romantic inclinations myself, I had to do some research. Asexual ask blogs actually proved to be a great help, as did interviewing a couple of my peers who are in relationships. It's kind of lazy, to sort of rewrite the show, but I sort of started out with an idea and didn't look back. Hopefully I somewhat grasped human emotion correctly.


End file.
